The Winter Road Read online

  “I’d really like to talk to him.”

  “I’m sure he’d like to talk to you.”

  “Given how simple a thing that would be for him to do I’d say it isn’t a priority. I understand he’s busy with his aunt. What I don’t understand is why won’t you give me a number where I can call him.”

  “I’ve had trouble reaching him myself. I wait for him to call me.”

  “Were you always like this?”

  “Like what, Emily?”

  “Did you choose your job because it suited you, or did you grow into it?”

  He looked at her without speaking. What was she supposed to do with a look? Maybe he thought she was an empath. Maybe when he was silent, he thought the two of them were bonding, communicating at a deeper level than mere speech.

  “We’re not, you know.”

  His eyebrows gave a questioning twitch. He didn’t understand. Nope, no deeper meaning. Just an insurance man’s assessing expression. Adding and subtracting, a constant analyzing of value.

  “Emily, I take back what I said yesterday. Sometimes you’re not transparent. Sometimes I can’t figure you out at all.”

  She nodded, pleased. “Good.”

  THEY WALKED the rest of the way home in silence. By the time Matthew left for town, after cutting boards to lengths that would fit on the wall around the staircase, the clouds had grown and darkened and the wind held whiffs of ozone.

  When he was younger Hamish had raced around the yard when thunder sounded, looking for the herd of whatever creature was making so much noise. Even now it made him restless. He paced, sniffing the air, peering into the distance.

  Emily opened the door and whistled. “Come on in, boy.” He never did, except on the very coldest days of winter and then only for respite from minus-forty temperatures. Then he was outside again, on the job. He fooled himself as well as any human could.

  From the step she could hear him panting. “Come in and protect the ladies, Hamish. We need a fierce dog in here.” He ignored her, but the cat streaked through the open door and disappeared under the kitchen table.

  A crash of thunder shook the house. In case the power went out Emily hurried to make a huge pot of tea, pouring some into cups for now and the rest into a thermos for later. Sipping without talking, she and her mother watched the rain.

  LATE THAT NIGHT Emily sat in bed, knees drawn up. The wind had blown the clouds away, along with some of the past month’s heat. There was only a crescent moon so the sky was black and she could see very little outside. Blacker places where trees grew, stars so plentiful the sight of them nearly overwhelmed her. Her throat tightened. This window, this view, this bed. On every sleepless night.

  She needed a new bed. That would help her sleep. Uncle Will and Aunt Edith had got her this one when she was nine. It had seemed so grown up then to graduate from her roll-away cot with its thin mattress resting on a woven metal mesh to a flowered twin with box springs. Now it squeaked when she moved and sagged with a permanent imprint of her body.

  A new bed—a double—and maybe an armchair. A place of her own to sit with a cup of tea and read. It was exactly what she needed. As soon as her first paycheck came in September she would go into town and take care of it.

  With that picture in mind, a dozy feeling stole over her. Her head drooped, touching the cool glass.

  She didn’t feel as if she slept but she must have because when light flashed across the yard she jerked awake, confused. The security light on the garage had come on. Hamish was there, quiet, watching. Watching a man who stood frozen for a second, less than a second, then ducked into the shadows.

  Matthew.

  Her mind felt frozen, too. Then it got busy denying that there was anything wrong with Matthew being in her yard at night. Maybe he’d come back for his hammer, maybe he’d been patrolling the place every night since the break-in. Maybe he’d come to throw pebbles at her window and quote Shakespeare.

  One remembered question worked its way through the excuses.

  Is he a good watchdog?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  EMILY ARRIVED in Pine Point as soon as the library opened. She greeted Mrs. Shelley, the head librarian, and got right into her story before she could reconsider.

  “I’m not sure what to do. A friend of mine asked me to look something up for him on microfilm but he forgot to tell me which one to sign out. He’s away all day, so I can’t call him to ask.”

  “Do you know which set of microfilm he meant?”

  “He was here last week looking at it. Matthew Rutherford? You wouldn’t have a record of it, would you?”

  Mrs. Shelley turned to a hardcover, ring-bound book. She flipped through the pages, muttering names as she read them. “Here we are. Matthew Rutherford. He borrowed a few boxes. The Winnipeg Tribune, January to June, 1979 and the Pine Point Register, 1979 and 1981.” The Register was a weekly paper, so a whole year fit on one spool.

  “Could I look at all of them?”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Shelley smiled wryly. “If your eyes and neck don’t give out first.”

  She took keys from a drawer and led the way to a tall filing cabinet. Emily waited, squirming at how easy it had been to lie successfully to someone she respected. She accepted the boxes of microfilm, set the first spool in place on the viewer and threaded the film into the up-take.

  She started with The Tribune. Since she had no idea what she was looking for she inched through each day’s edition, skimming national and international news, speeding past ads and comics, slowing down for personals, looking for any mention of the name Rutherford.

  She stopped when she reached March 11. In the bottom right-hand corner of the front page there was an article about the bush plane Uncle Will had mentioned. Over the next few days short pieces updated the story. The search temporarily suspended due to bad weather, a biography of the pilot, decorated during WWII, years of service in the RCMP. Friends quoted about how resourceful he was, how certain they were he could manage with the survival gear he had on board.

  She went on. Grain prices, Camp David peace treaty, Idi Amin overthrown, spring flooding in the Red River valley, increase in the price of oil, Winnipeg Jets in the AVCO Cup finals, protests about the closing of Portage and Main to pedestrians…

  After two hours, she sat back from the viewer and held her fingers over her eyes. She had looked at the entire six months, too quickly to read everything. There was no way of knowing what Matthew had wanted to find.

  She rewound the film, then started on the 1979 Register. She scrolled through photos of prize cattle and visiting politicians and articles about the Agricultural Fair and 4-H Rallies. There was even an advertisement for Daniel’s security business, the one that always made her smile. Punks a Problem?… She could have been reading this year’s paper.

  The 1981 edition was almost identical. Eyes stinging, she went through the pages, hardly reading anymore. Three Creeks was often mentioned and Daniel was sometimes quoted as the local expert on crime.

  Her finger on the advance button paused.

  Area Farmer Electrocuted.

  A sick feeling went through her. All these years later, and she didn’t want to read it.

  Just outside Three Creeks this week Graham Moore, 42, died on his property when he stepped into wet ground near a downed hydro wire. His body was discovered when family members went in search of him after he failed to return home for dinner.

  William Robb, the man’s brother-in-law, said the deceased was a good farmer and a devoted family man.

  Moore moved to the area ten years ago. He leaves a wife and eight-year-old daughter.

  She looked at the date at the top of the page. Shouldn’t it have leapt out at her? Even the year on the box’s label, 1981, shouldn’t that be etched on her memory? She felt a rush of guilt that it wasn’t.

  Further in was a brief obituary. Really brief. It didn’t give her father’s place of birth or list any family other than his wife and daughter. The following w
eek a longer article appeared about the accident and the funeral. It quoted friends and relatives who all thought he was the finest man who ever lived. People tended to talk like that right after someone died. It took a year or two before they remembered the real person.

  But she hadn’t remembered the real person. He was like a fairy-tale figure. Once upon a time there was a father. He had walked into the story and then out again, with so little comment from anyone who was there to see it.

  This couldn’t be what Matthew had been reading. Could it? He kept asking about her family. At Daniel’s door he’d seemed so closed to her until he’d heard her name. But what could her father’s death have to do with anything?

  She printed the article, went back and printed the obituary and the first article, then went slowly through the rest of the film looking for some other story more likely to explain Matthew’s search. She found a short piece about an alarm system Daniel had installed that led to the arrest of a cattle poacher, but nothing else about the Rutherfords and nothing that also accounted for Matthew’s presence on her property at night.

  She handed in the microfilm, walked to the water fountain to stretch her legs and get a drink, then signed on to use one of the library computers. Her fingers on the keyboard, she stared at the empty search box. It felt wrong to send someone’s name into the ether. An intrusion.

  Matthew Rutherford, she typed, then hit enter. In seconds, pages of entries containing that name jumped to the screen. There were a lot of Matthew Rutherfords in the world, with various middle initials, addresses and occupations. None of them seemed to be her Matthew Rutherford.

  She typed in Ontario White Pages. When that came up, she found Ottawa, then again typed his name.

  Nothing.

  She tried Rutherford.

  More than twenty listings. Using the little pencil and scraps of paper provided, she wrote down each name and telephone number.

  By the time Emily left the library it was midafternoon. She couldn’t tell if she was hungry, or queasy from watching too many fuzzy screens of old news. Looking idly around, trying to decide if she should pick up a sandwich or go home, she saw Matthew standing at the end of the block. He was talking to someone. She couldn’t see who until the person hidden by his body moved.

  Jason Willis.

  It was Tuesday. His court day. She’d forgotten.

  The boy looked at the sidewalk, every now and then shaking his head. They started walking at a comfortable pace, talking, almost friendly, and stopped outside the courthouse. Matthew clapped a hand on Jason’s shoulder, but the boy shook it off. Not so friendly, then.

  He didn’t leave, though. He stood, his back half turned to Matthew, still listening. An older man came out of the courthouse and joined them. Definitely not friendly. He pushed Jason away from Matthew. The two of them got into a car parked at the curb and drove away.

  Emily stepped back into the library’s lobby. She waited until Matthew left before going to her car.

  AT HOME, she worked through the list of Ottawa phone numbers. She got answering machines, busy signals, children who could barely speak and suspicious-sounding adults who wouldn’t say if a Matthew lived at their address, or if a Daniel was visiting, or even if they knew anyone by those names.

  Finally, she reached a woman who was willing to talk to her. “From Three Creeks? My goodness, I haven’t thought about that little town in years. Oh—” The friendly voice suddenly became concerned. “Oh, dear. Don’t tell me something’s happened to Daniel.”

  “No, it’s not that at all,” Emily said quickly. “He’s visiting relatives, but I don’t know where. I’m trying to find him or his nephew, Matthew.”

  “Nephew? I’m sorry, I can’t help you there. Daniel isn’t visiting any of the family in my neck of the woods. Can I have your number? If I hear anything, I’ll call.”

  As soon as Emily hung up, the telephone rang.

  It was Matthew. “Sorry to be so long getting in touch with you today.” He sounded relaxed and friendly. “I had to take care of a few things, and then I kept getting a busy signal. Thought I might see you in town. Jason Willis was in court.”

  “I forgot.”

  “The judge gave him probation.”

  “That’s what Corporal Reed predicted.”

  “It doesn’t worry you?”

  “He’s not the scariest guy I’ve ever come across.”

  “Now you’re sounding worldly.”

  Emily didn’t answer. The country-girl joke was wearing thin.

  “If it’s a good time for you and Julia I could come now to work on the shelves.”

  “We’ve been busy, too.” He’d been chatting so comfortably, as if he didn’t have secrets to protect. She wanted to ask what he’d been doing in her yard and why he’d been talking to Jason, but a little belated wariness seemed like a good idea. “Mom’s busy with book ordering today.” Another lie. “I don’t want to interrupt her with pounding and sawing. Is that all right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you’ll have time for your history project. Imagine if Daniel came home and all you’d accomplished was building a new bookcase for my mother!”

  “That might be hard to explain,” he agreed.

  They said goodbye without making arrangements for him to continue the shelves.

  Emily took a mug of tea outside and sat on the steps. Hamish ambled over, sniffing hopefully in the direction of her cup. Thanks to the day’s slightly cooler temperature he looked livelier than she’d seen him in weeks.

  Matthew had asked if she could connect her uncomfortable feeling about the break-in to a thought, to something she’d seen. And she could. All her uneasiness connected to him.

  If she removed the Rutherford family history from the picture, what had Matthew done since arriving in Three Creeks? Toured her house and property, showed interest in Jack’s money—nest egg or fortune? He’d asked questions about her family, especially about her mother and the books. He’d examined the books as much as Julia would allow. He’d read about her father’s death and talked privately to the boy who had broken into the house.

  If she also took away friendly curiosity and getting to know each other, she was left with some very strange behavior. She didn’t want to leap all the way to the conclusion that Matthew was interested in stealing a rare book, but the idea sat in her mind. She wished she knew if she was being ridiculous.

  Well, she was. Either ridiculous and unfair now or ridiculous and naive before.

  Okay, then. No leaping, no conclusions. Just wary.

  She smiled at the dog. “Hey,” she said softly. “You’re my role model.”

  His tail thumped the ground.

  “I’m putting off the next step,” she told him.

  He came closer, wagging his tail more energetically, ready to fall in with any plan.

  “Should I just get it over with?” She nodded. “Yes, I think so.”

  LOTS OF PEOPLE saved things—wedding matches printed with the names of brides and grooms, ticket stubs from special performances—Julia saved everything. Every piece of paper that could say the slightest thing about every single day of her life, as if she needed proof she was here.

  Emily didn’t like the image of her mother bent over the kitchen table, her attention far away, cutting and filing. The boxes had always made her uneasy. Opening them now felt wrong. Another intrusion.

  She read the labels and wondered where to start. 1972. The year her parents married. 1973. The year she was born.

  Maybe it was all right to look in that one.

  She lifted the lid and found a row of file folders in alphabetical order. One section, set off from the year’s other events, was labelled Emily’s Birth.

  Within that section one file bulged with boxes of unused birth announcements. Not just leftovers. Never opened. Another held her birth certificate and a Baby’s Record card from the hospital. Someone had filled out the time and date of her birth, and her weight, length and head cir
cumference.

  Several folders were marked, Cards Received. Lots of storks and shades of pink. Every relative and nearly everyone in town had sent congratulations, as well as a few people she didn’t know, a Frank and an Andrew and an Ethel. Whoever they were, they’d found out about her, in spite of that box of unsent announcements.

  All right, she’d broken the ice snooping, but as far as she could see nothing from the 1973 box connected to Matthew and the microfilm, or Matthew and the midnight visit. She snapped the lid back on, then jumped ahead to 1981.

  Of all the folders in the box, one stood out. The label said, Graham’s Death.

  The wording startled her. The contrast was odd, the distance of her mother’s abrupt manner and the intimacy of her father’s first name. No one ever referred to him by name.

  She touched the edge of the file and pulled it open without taking it out of the box. Newspaper clippings—the same articles she had printed at the library. An Order of Service from the church.

  There was a sound behind her.

  “What do you want?” Her mother stood looking at the open box, the exposed papers.

  “I’m not sure. Information about Dad. Is it all right?”

  Julia’s brows pulled together and a flurry of blinking began. “You shouldn’t look at that box.”

  “It’s from the year he died.”

  “You shouldn’t look at it.”

  “I don’t mean to upset you.”

  “Don’t look at it!” Julia whirled around and left the room.

  Emily stared at the empty doorway. Then she removed the file with the clippings about her father’s death, laid it flat on one of the boxes and opened it.

  UNCLE WILL HAD been changing the oil filter on his tractor. Emily sat on the seat, high above him, watching as he read the letter she’d found.

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t think anything.” Carefully holding one corner of the paper between black-stained fingertips, he handed it back to her.